That settled, not a word was said, for who could give any comfort? Now

and then, as they plodded up the hill beyond Kingsdown, the servant

uttered a low curse and Sir George groaned, while Mr. Fishwick sighed in

sheer exhaustion. It was a strange and dreary position for men whose

ordinary lives ran through the lighted places of the world. The wind

swept sadly over the dark fields. The mud clung to the squelching,

dragging boots; now Mr. Fishwick was within an ace of the ditch on one

side, now on the other, and now he brought up heavily against one of his

companions. At length the servant gave him an arm, and thus linked

together they reached the crest of the hill, and after taking a moment

to breathe, began the descent.

They were within two or three hundred paces of Bathford and the bridge

over the Avon when the servant cried out that some one was awake in the

village, for he saw a light. A little nearer and all saw the light,

which grew larger as they approached but was sometimes obscured.

Finally, when they were within a hundred yards of it, they discovered

that it proceeded not from a window but from a lanthorn set down in the

village street, and surrounded by five or six persons whose movements to

and fro caused the temporary eclipses they noticed. What the men were

doing was not at once clear; but in the background rose the dark mass of

a post-chaise, and seeing that--and one other thing--Sir George uttered

a low exclamation and felt for his hilt.

The other thing was Mr. Dunborough, who, seated at his ease on the step

of the post-chaise, appeared to be telling a story, while he nursed his

injured arm. His audience, who seemed to have been lately roused from

their beds--for they were half-dressed--were so deeply engrossed in what

he was narrating that the approach of our party was unnoticed; and Sir

George was in the middle of the circle, his hand on the speaker's

shoulder, and his point at his breast, before a man could move in

his defence.

'You villain!' Soane cried, all the misery, all the labour, all the

fears of the night turning his blood to fire, 'you shall pay me now! Let

a man stir, and I will spit you like the dog you are! Where is she?

Where is she? For, by Heaven, if you do not give her up, I will kill you

with my own hand!' Mr. Dunborough, his eyes on the other's face, laughed.

That laugh startled Sir George more than the fiercest movement, the

wildest oath. His point wavered and dropped. 'My God!' he cried, staring

at Dunborough. 'What is it? What do you mean?' 'That is better,' Mr. Dunborough said, nodding complacently but not

moving a finger. 'Keep to that and we shall deal.' 'What is it, man? What does it mean?' Sir George repeated. He was all of

a tremble and could scarcely stand.




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